"Yes," the elf replied still looking up at nothing, obviously distracted. "I gave Zea her Trump along with the one for James not more than a few minutes ago."

Jessie couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't quite right anymore but he couldn't quite put his finger on it yet. The fact that his very soul seemed to be itching like crazy was doing nothing to help matters either.

"I wouldn't know any more than you exactly how many people there are Trumps for, though I can tell you that other than the ones that I've already told you about there are, for certain, Trumps for Bulworth, Ambrogino and myself. I'd say it's also highly likely that Trumps exist for both Baldesar and Ignazio though I've never seen them. As a word of warning to you, I'd recommend against trying to destroy the thing. I may very well be wrong about exactly how the Trumps are connected to the person they depict but they ARE connected. I'm not really certain what would happen if one of the Trumps got even seriously damaged."

The itch intensified and Jessie fidgeted, attempting to maintain his composure in front of the phoenix. "Were there any other questions you had?"

"Just the one," Cerene decided, "How likely would you say it is the people searching for you will decide to look up past acquaintances?" Being drawn into Black's ongoing dramas, for whatever reason, was not high on her list of priorities.

Zea emerged from the library with an expensive sheet of paper between her fingers. On it was a general reproduction of the route home and back, along with a few notes she'd taken for the sake of whomever ended up using the map on the way back. She passed Jesiah and Cerene. Zea was certainly curious about the cards she and Cerene now held, but she was still tired from the previous night's ritual and trusted her friend to ask the necessary questions to wrangle the truth out of Mr. Black.

In short, she trusted Cerene not to trust him.

Really, Zea was lucky to have such a sensible and practical woman along. Even if they frequently disagreed on certain philosophical questions such as what ought to be done with a helpless enemy, Cerene was someone who took care of her friends. She wouldn't let anything happen to the others if there were any way to prevent it. Of course, there were many things that Cerene couldn't control for, that no one could.

Most of them were connected to Zea herself. She was the one who wanted to go gallivanting off to her homeland, and who had brought them with her. She was the one who seemed to be attracting trouble the whole way, too. And now everybody was exhausted and confused and, in one case, twice-deceased.

The quirky and awful thing about it was that Zea was leaving for just this reason. She always had to put her job first, no matter what she or anybody else ended up sacrificing. Last night had been just one more case of the same iron habit, and even if it had ended well... it was coming clear to Zea that if anything had happened to them it would have been her fault. It would have been her fault, but she wouldn't even have had the decency to regret it.

The necromancer felt the concern of her spirit familiar close at hand. They're scattered through town, dearest. And for them all to find each other--and the dead man--again... it will take a while.

I don't want to do that, John... can't we just--

Who's it going to be next time? Solis? Your father? Right now you have a head start. And the map.

She sighed. No.

And what of those little cards? What about James' card? If you stay, you'll be here when Jesiah's enemies find him. And they'll get it back.

"Lemme think about it," she muttered, stalling for time. No doubt she looked a little odd to anyone on the street who noticed her talking to herself as she walked.

Pray you don't lose your opportunity.

"I need to at least let one of them know. First one I come across; we'll leave it to fate."

Fate is a pestilent whore with a sick obsession for irony. I wouldn't leave anything to her if I were you.

Cerene and Jessiah were going on and on about things that Michael had no knowledge or understanding of, and less and less interest in hearing about as they spoke on it at length. He'd actually stopped listening a while back in favor of feeling sorry for himself at having nothing better to do than contemplate his own current weirdness while they did talk. It was self indulgent, but he was a teen who had been through a lot of weird shit in a few days, and he felt entitled.

He didn't mull on these things too long, however: Zea was walking by. She must have finished her business at the library. Well then, he'd leave these two to talk and see where she was off to now! He wasted no time in chasing after her, albeit more than a bit slowed by his heavy pack, not quite as big as he was now. She'd keep a good lead on him until she stopped somewhere.

While he was following her, he realized she seemed to be talking to herself. It'd be more worrisome if she didn't do it every now and again anyway; Something to do with that ghost guy she hung around with. Michael fell back on being polite to it, but he wasn't always entirely sure what to think of it. It was pretty arbitrarily considerate and rude to different people. Michael pushed aside the wonder of if he'd been the same way in life to listen to what Zea was actually saying.

"I need to at least let one of them know. First one I come across; we'll leave it to fate."

What? What could THAT mean? He hung back a bit, just a little, so there would be less chance that she would hear him following her. He meant to find out what this was all about... If it was what he suspected, well, Zea was in for a surprise.

Someone may have heard the clattering of wooden shingles on the roof above. They would have only gained a short preview of what was to come. Atop the two storey building was a figure, hovering at the edge, slumped and dead-eyed. And as visions travelled upward to gaze upon it, it then dropped from its perch, and fast as it was spied, it hit the ground with a stomach-turning thud.

Any of his compatriates would recognize that ugly plaid jacket immediately. It was the body of Goren Felson.

"What the hell?" Cerene's gaze snapped round to regard the plummeting figure, heart in her mouth - until she recognised him. What did the silly sod think he was playing at, she wondered to herself as she hurried over to be the first on the scene. Letting some other well-meaning person get to him first would mean his undead status would be out there for all to see, and trouble would surely follow.

She hadn't seen any sign of a struggle, and there certainly certainly wasn't anyone up there now. Well, Goren could tell her what had happened, she reflected, kneeling down next to him and going through the motions of checking his vitals.

Zea started nearly out of her skin when a body dropped to the ground in front of her without preamble or good explanation. She recognized the body just as Cerene rushed over and knelt down next to it. Him. Not properly dead yet, so still a him. Goren.

People were beginning to gather, whoever was close enough by chance and had nowhere better to be in a hurry. Zea gave them a hard look. "Back off, I'm a cleric," she told them. Skeptical that there was anything left for her to do for such a dull-eyed unmoving form. "I said back off."

Finally winning herself a little space, she squinted down at Goren. He looked like crap. Probably hadn't been maintaining himself properly. She took one of his hands as though helping Cerene check for the rhythm of blood moving and whispered to the young woman, "I only need a couple seconds to concentrate. After that you can get him up and out of here. Just don't touch the stone he carries."

With her skin already in contact with his--and some part of her mind noted that while he was extraordinarily well-preserved for a corpse of his apparent age, his skin was far too dry--Zea channeled a bit of necromantic energy through, just as she would do to repair one of her own creations. She didn't want to give him too much in case it made things worse, but odds were that the same principles applied.

Though there was still uncertainty. Goren had been behaving oddly of late, breaking all sorts of iron-clad rules about undead. Dreaming. Dreaming of all things.

Something wasn't right. For the moment it escaped her notice that she'd been hoping to draw aside one of her friends and now here there were two. Everyone but Solis and her father. She might have to discuss it with everybody after all. And it would be just fitting for the universe to throw her such an odd little puzzle to keep her with the others. Even as she knew what was happening, Zea found the question difficult to resist. What was wrong with him?

Michael stood back from the crowd and his compatriots. Anyone that had sufficient experience to help Goren was already working to that end, so he felt no need to push forward and butt in. He just watched from a short distance, waiting for things to develop.

It occurred to him that he didn't know if Zea had seen him yet or not. If she hadn't he wanted to keep out of her line of sight for now, too. With some effort, he hauled himself and his bag over behind some rain barrels. Having improved his position, more or less, he started watching again, just around the barrel's edge.

Goren's body began regaining motion. One might call it coming back to life, but one who knew the "man" would know immediately that term was inadequate at best. Bones crunched and popped back into place as he returned to a standing position, back to his partymates.

His voice then returned, coming out low and raspy, as if he hadn't slaked a thirst in days. Once again, this was an inadequate term, but less so. Goren's well-known "thirsts" were known to his friends, and to anyone watching... he looked like he had gone without for some time. "Hey guys... been too long... I've been ACHING to see you again. Haven't seen you since... when was it? Oh, yes...

"With those kids..." He chuckled slightly at remembering this. "Right, right... send off the lifesucking monster with the walking combo meals on legs... SUCH a good idea. Don't worry, I didn't get all of them... some of them scurried off, probably to hide behind some tree, hoping the Big Bad Hatchet Man didn't come and get them... ooh, I can almost predict their nightmares... like icing on a cake..."

Looking over his shoulder to his "old friends", beady red eye penetrating their very soul, he continued, "Oh, you should have seen the looks on their face... just ... priceless! SNKKKKKK" At that, he started laughing, but it wasn't a laugh of a dark murderous man who recently slew a group of innocent children. It was a boisterous laugh, like that of a prankster who could no longer hold up a humourous facade.

Sighing and pulling an apple out of his pocket, he smiled and said, "Ah, just shitting you guys. Hoo... shoulda seen your looks. I miss anything?"

Michael keeps watching from a distance, mostly hidden by a barrel. He didn't really expect Zea to try to run off on her own anymore, but it was easier to wait for someone else to yell at Goren before he walked back and reminded everyone to be depressed and quiet and moody by existing. True, he felt all of those things himself when reflecting on what had happened, but he didn't need a whole group of his friends sharing that with him right this moment.

As things wore on and no one moved or did anything particularly interesting, Michael considered heading over. Zea didn't seem to be in such a big hurry to leave anymore, after all, so staying hidden and tailing her was less of a priority. He was just taking a step out from behind the barrels when there was a soft 'thump', and the world grew dark.

Michael, now unconscious, was dragged away from the scene, along with most of his belongings: Most, but as he was being roughly pulled along his tortured backpack's closing strap gave out, and one of his school books clattered onto the cobble stones.